


Beaten

by katiesigh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, John is a telepath, The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiesigh/pseuds/katiesigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is a telepath and is kidnapped by Moriaty. Set at the end of The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beaten

John isn’t aware of much.

The last thing he remembers is leaving Baker Street, turning the corner, going somewhere - he’s not quite sure where, it seems unimportant now - then a strong set of gloved hands, one around his waist and another around his mouth, a quick shove into a car, and a sharp pain in the back of his head.

John does a quick situation check. He is blindfolded and his hands are tied. He can hear the quiet engine of whatever car he’s in, can smell expensive leather and feel a seatbelt irritating his neck. He can hear the thoughts of the driver - slow and careful but entirely useless. To make matters worse the man’s listening to an MP3 player of some kind, the music effectively masking the majority of his thoughts. John has no idea where he is going.

Ten minutes later the car stops, and John is thrown roughly out of his seat, hitting the ground hard. Hands grab him from behind - the driver - and pull him to his feet, push him forward. A heavy sounding door is opened, and their footsteps go from tapping on asphalt to echoing on tiling. The smell of chlorine is strong.

The driver goes to give him one final shove, but John has been concentrating hard, and so feels it coming - even through the music he can sense where the driver is, can sense the tension indicative of a physical act. He sidesteps the man neatly, pushing his foot out and listening, satisfied, as he hits the ground. The driver’s angry now; the emotion loosens his thoughts some, and he forgets about his music. John can sense him standing and squaring up for a punch. He braces himself, hopes his reading skills are good enough to let him dodge without tumbling onto the ground.

“Now, now,” a voice calls reaproachingly from across the room, and the man’s mood changes abruptly. His anger dissipates and immediately he grabs at his MP3 player, shoving the earbuds back in, music returning. “Better,” the voice adds, “off you go.”

John searches for the mind, and finds it - but all he can hear is quiet classical music, lilting violins and deep, staccato basses. It unnerves him, because there is something huge and sinister hiding under those notes. John also finds seven other minds - seven sharp, professional minds, all looking at him through crosshairs. He swears under his breath.

“John Watson,” the voice declares, after the driver leavers. His footsteps break the silence as he moves closer. There is a pressure at John’s wrists, then at the back of his head, and he is free. By the time he rids himself of the bonds, the owner of the voice is a good three meters away. “Guess who I am!” he sings, and a chill runs down John’s spine.

John glances around before he answers. He's at a swimming pool, something he already guessed from the smell. The room seems odd and ominous and speckled, the movement of the water in pool throwing light in strange places. All sounds are echoed and empty and clogged with water and chlorine. Red and blue alternating stalls edge the room.

The man standing in front of him is familiar, but he can't quite place it. John stays quiet.

"I probably don't need to tell you about the snipers, please don't try and run," he says cheerfully, then pauses. "Wait, you don't recognise me? Oh, I am saddened!" Suddenly him demeanour changes, becomes nervous and jittery and shy. "I- I came and visited, remember? It was really nice, though I was hardly focussing on you, doctor."

"Jim?" John says quietly, as it clicks.

“From IT, ooh yes!” Jim beams, the shyness falling away. He’s wearing a suit, smart and professional, but there’s something wrong with his expressions. They're almost reptilian. “The gay act, always works." His jaw moves slowly, as if he's chewing gum. "He just _loves_ the most dramatic and _controversial_ solution.” Looking almost wistful, he continues, “That’s why he couldn’t resist my game.”

Realisation comes to John like a bucket of cold water, cascading over his head and down to his toes. Dread solidifies somewhere in his stomach. “ _Moriarty_.”

“Oops,” Moriarty says innocently, “did my thoughts give me away?” John’s jaw tightens. “Oh, I know. The music thing, clever, isn’t it? Hard to test of course - you could call the car trip a trial run.”

“What do you want?”

“Just a bit of _entertainment_ , Johnny-boy.”

Moriarty’s lip twitches, and suddenly John’s entire body is on fire, pain searing through his nerves and muscles and bones and spots swim in front of his eyes and _oh God_. He hears himself cry out. As quickly as it started, the pain is gone. He notices that at some point he must have fallen to the ground, because that’s where he is now, gasping for breath and clutching at the concrete beneath him. Moriarty heaves a sigh that three months ago he wouldn’t have recognised, but does now; it’s the sigh of an addict finally getting his fix.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Moriarty drawls, expressions slow and superior and almost bored. His thoughts still give nothing away, despite John’s very best attempts. “Not something many people know about - you and I are the only two privileged ones,” he sings, stalking toward John with his hands leisurely behind his back. “You see,” Moriarty says, leaning down to bring his face close to John who’s still half-lying on the floor, “everyone that I play with ends up dead.” It’s clear where the power lies at the moment. His eyes blaze like fire, completely at odds with his icy calm disposition.

John quickly runs his hands over his body, as if searching for something that could have caused the pain. “How…?” he says, voice weak and full of fear, trying to pretend he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really even need to act to pull the performance off. Moriarty isn’t fooled for a moment.

“I used to use it to manipulate people,” he continues, as if John hasn’t spoken. “Trained them like _dogs_.” He spits out the last word, and a tiny bolt of pain runs up John’s spine, settling momentarily at the base of his neck. “ _Conditioned_ them.” Moriarty stresses odd syllables, like a man trying to do an overly dramatic reading - only the effect he produces is chilling rather than amusing. “It really was,” he pauses, sniffs for effect. “ _Too_ easy.” Another jolt of pain. “Too _boring_. I prefer controlling people the old fashioned way - the clever way.”

John swallows bravely, staring at Moriarty defiantly. “Go to hell.”

“Ooh, there’s still a bit of fire,” pain sears its way through John’s bones, “in you yet.”

And as John writhes in pain, he wishes he had some kind of way to fight back. He wishes his telepathy was like half the super heroes he’d read of as a little boy, and that he could invade Moriarty’s mind and make him see things, feel things, think things. As it is all he can do is listen to Moriarty’s smug buzzing music and the nervous but professional thoughts of the snipers watching in.

“Now see here,” Moriarty says, leaning right down close to John, “I have won. I have beaten you and I am exactly,” he checks his watch, “twenty-three minutes away from beating a certain Mr. Holmes. I don’t mean to be cocky,” he says slowly, “but I am. Oh, I am.”

John licks his lips. “The easy way,” he acusses from his place on the ground, fully expecting the fire to sweep through him once more. Moriarty actually laughs.

“Oh, oh no no no. I see what you’re doing here!” His voice swaps between sickening sing-song and incredulous laughter. “Persistent, I’ll give you that. No, this,” a tiny flicker of pain, so that it is exactly clear what this is, “was just for fun.” A grin spreads its way across his face as he continues. “I have a plan, and it involves no physical pain for Sherlock Holmes at all. Not until the very end.”

Twenty minutes later, John is standing in a stall in a pool with a bomb strapped to his chest. Seven snipers and a maniac await his friend’s entrance.

**Author's Note:**

> A section of an AU idea of mine where John is a telepath and Moriarty can do that pain-thing but Sherlock can't do anything (well, nothing more than in the canon anyways).
> 
> I have a lot of thoughts and plans about this AU. Hopefully it will become a proper Thing in the near future, with a capital letter and everything!
> 
> Also naming things sucks.


End file.
